


3 Musketeers

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Sugar 'Verse [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Asthma, Family, Gen, Illegal Activities, Loyalty, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 19:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: Steve's stomach tightens. He ain't so good with a lot of food but he's willing to be ill after bread pudding.He almost says it back, like a starving street urchin -excuse me, Sir, but did you say Bread Pudding?“I'll have to ask my Ma,” he says again.Buchanan snorts, but he's been working around Steve a couple months now, so before Steve can get offended or even ask what's funny, he's saying,“I ask you to dinner, you sound like it's a death sentence. I ask you to bread pudding and you nearly jump right into my lap – I'd be offended 'cept we're talking about bread pudding. You know how my Ma makes it? She takes-”Steve groans, ignoring the lap comment.“Don't,” he says, pressing one hand to his stomach. “It's two days and my Ma might be too tired – you're killin' me.”Buchanan laughs.





	3 Musketeers

In all of Brooklyn, there are enough people working for Barnes, Barnes & Barnes that, usually, you can find somebody who knows somebody who works for 'em. They've cast their net wide and had bountiful pickings and it's because they're fair.

They choose their fights carefully, throwing the little ones back and being tenacious with the big ones. If somebody wriggles free, good for them – chances are they'll be swept up again sooner or later. If the net breaks, they mend it stronger.

They have men in all the right places – those who keep an eye on the law, an eye on the imports, an eye on the underground. Those who keep eyes open and heads down. Grocers know them, doctors know them, favors owed and favors paid, and if it ain't so that every man works for Barnes, if it ain't so that everybody knows someone who works for 'em, then it's true that every person in Brooklyn, knowing of it or not, knows someone who knows someone. Three connections back is enough for Barnes, Barnes & Barnes. They don't need everyone in their pockets, just the right people. The right places open for business at the right times.

There are activities engaged in that require privacy, others that require cunning. The advantage, for example, of Barnes Senior's schoolboy friendship with Casey Carrick, who's now grown with a family, and works the docks on the night shift, is an opportunity taken often, business conducted on the regular. The convenience of the lasting mutual appreciation between Buchanan and Ardal MacGuinness, who was the grade above him in school, is that Ardal always has work and Buchanan always has access to certain equipment. The upside to Rebecca's network of friends, who buy themselves and their friends the better Martinis in town on certain nights of the week and pretend that their curlers and their lipsticks equal their worth, is that they're considered no threat by a whole lot of people, though every last one's as sharp as a tack.

The Barnes empire keeps men like Steve Rogers in their homes and in a job – judges them by their worth, not their health. By their minds, not their bodies. And, in some cases, by their loyalty, not their preference. 

But there are some without whom the whole kit and caboodle might be a whole lot harder. You need runners, of course, and you need number-crunchers. Administrative duties are unavoidable, and sometimes so are vendors. But still, though the Barnes family run a tight, fair ship and have clear, fair goals and make important, fair decisions, there is always, _always_, sooner or later, a requirement for hands-on treatment.

The muscle in the Barnes empire varies, and there's more than a few employed for that reason. But at the right hand of the Family Barnes, at their table and in their church, on their runs and on their heels, are four men, considered the Lieutenants.

Aedan Conrad is Buchanan's age. They went to school together, and he don't got a wife. Got a son somewhere, but not in Brooklyn. 

His accent's as thick as his father's was, and he smokes a fair few cigarettes. Doesn't drink, though, different from his Da in that respect. He don't use brass knuckles 'cause he don't need 'em. Used to bare-knuckle box for money, have someone place a bet on himself for more. He's got a face you can tell used to be that of a looker, but there's something dark behind it from his Da, something that's known a lack of love and felt it keenly.

He was born in Red Hook and he means to die in Red Hook if he lives that long, but there's a girl he's seeing, a lovely blonde little thing, who thinks the world of him and don't mind the scar through his eyebrow nor the callouses on his hands – don't mind that son he's got, either. She's happy for him to take her dancing and get her an ice-cream in summer, take her to the fair or go somewhere out of town for a day or two. She gives him cotton candy – which he never could resist. He means to marry her, and if Buchanan and his Da have arranged for him to maybe have a little more in his pocket should he be looking for a ring, that's nobody's business but their own.

Padraig Allan is perhaps halfway between Buchanan's age and Barnes Senior's, and he's a family. A wife and two children in their late teens and early twenties. The wife teaches, the girl does too, and the son works the docks like the sons of half of Brooklyn. 

Though he's mortally afraid of water – if there's one thing everybody knows, it's that Padraig Allan can't swim – he still likes a drink and don't take kindly to insults. His only problem is he don't always grasp the finer details of things any more. He's usually given a little room to maneuver seeing as how he once took a crowbar to his skull. It left a dent you can feel if you run your fingers through his hair, or sometimes see when his wife nags him hard enough to make a trip to the barber. He's got a couple of teeth missing, and one of the ones he has shines gold when he grins. He uses knuckles but only 'cause his fist and arm's weaker since that blow to the head.

Nobody's sure how he lived through it – he don't touch wood when he needs luck, he just rubs his skull and calls it luck enough.

Fergal O'Rodagh has skin like milk and hair like fire. There's no mistaking his heritage. He's got a year or five on Buchanan, but they still share a similar sense of humor, they still like the same kinds of things. Regardless of what people say about him, Fergal's quiet but dangerous, built a lot like Aedan Conrad but perhaps a little taller. He cuts the kind of figure you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley on the way home, which makes him also the kind you'd want with you going into a dark alley.

He fights hard and slow, but you ain't gettin' far if he clocks you. He's good at running people into corners, standing between men and the door, making himself the object you'd need to go through in order to get away. He teaches the new ones, for the most part – he's got an eye for stance and swing, and he's the one who's come out of the most fights unscathed. He ain't afraid of much, though he dislikes rats, and wonders from time to time what's to become of the immortal soul of a man such as himself.

He likes to fish and go walking – not an intellectual, not really, but he knows what he likes and he's a friend to those that treat him well. He ain't married – won't get married neither – his lodger wouldn't take too kind to it. Lodger's a nice kind of guy, good enough to halve the rent with any how. And Fergal must like him seeing as how he's had the same lodger for the past fifteen years. Hence the reason for callin' him Rosie.

Ciaran Lacey went to school with Senior, and they're still the kind of friends who take each other to pubs when the weather's warm, who sit by each others' fires when it's cold. Ciaran's wife died to tuberculosis years before, and they'd never made it to children. He swore he'd never love another, and never has.

He's sly and charming, just like his friend, and the two of them together are like brothers, him and Senior. They've seen a lot of Brooklyn's history go by them together, and Ciaran still sits at their table some Sundays, still shares his tobacco some evenings. Buchanan grew up with Lacey as part of the family, called him Uncle Ciaran from the time he could talk and still calls him 'Keen' from time to time, as he used to before he was old enough for the word to come out right.

He don't do much fighting these days, but he's still sharp and still smiles with a glint in his eye, and still carries a pistol inside his jacket should the need arise. He's part of the boys who lift the coffins by the gravesides and in the churches and, though it's happened perhaps twice in all their years, he knows the business well enough to stand in should Senior and Junior both be unavailable at once.

Conrad, Allan, Rosie and Lacey. All four of the Lieutenants have been with Barnes, Barnes & Barnes for upward of twenty years, Lacey for much longer. All four of them have acted as chaperons, all four of them have acted as bodyguards. They're all four part of a system that wouldn't function near as well without them, and all four are close to the family as well as the business.

And one of the four of them, Buchanan knows, has turned.

And, as much as Buchanan has been trying to find another reason for the problems with their Old Faithful shipments, and the run-ins with Mullaley's lot, he's only got that one that makes sense. How else would Mullaley know where they'll be, what crates to check, what hearses to stop? How else would Mullaley know which of their runners to catch, which of their lookouts to break?

Buchanan's tired of burying their own. It's about time they found out whose allegiance has changed, but going about it isn't going to be an easy thing. He can't just start talkin' to 'em separate, can't just give them different information. They talk with each other just as often as any friends do – planting false information wouldn't get Buchanan anywhere. All it'd do is get the traitor to clam up.

No, what he's got to do is find a way to get the mole to show himself. And, in the meantime, he's got to make sure the mole doesn't suspect Buchanan knows. One false move and, Buchanan knows, he's going to have one hell of a mess – and a whole lot of blood – on his hands.

~

Toward the end of February, Steve's not well, but what else is new? The stupid thing is, it ain't even something to be treated. You can't even treat a thing like some of what he's got and, today, his back and his joints are givin' him hell – his back especially.

He ambles in and drops down at his desk as graceful as he can manage. Steve's balancing a couple paychecks today, making sure the right incentives go to the right people. It's too much to trust him with implicitly, of course it is. But they trust him enough to do most of the workings-out before he gives it to Buchanan for the once-over. 

Steve thinks he knows what Buchanan's talking about. Ain't no shortage of people who sneer at Steve – some of 'em who's known him all his life, near enough – 'cause they think he ain't worth a dime. Can't walk, can't see, can't hear, can't breathe. What's the use of him, anyway? 

He's heard it often enough.

He don't get why Buchanan says 'we' like they're somehow on the same level, but it's nice that he's acting like he and Steve are in it together. Only other person to do that, really, is his mother. It's nice to have somebody else he don't gotta prove his worth to.

But today, though, today's important. Today Steve gets to learning about something else Buchanan deals with, and it ain't candy bars.

Senior comes in at maybe a quarter to twelve, and Steve asks him if he wants a coffee. Senior just gives him that wry smile and says, 

“I'll pass on that today, Stevie,” and goes on in.

When he comes out, he smiles at Steve.

“Got a job for you, boyo,” he says. “You like candy bars?”

“From time to time, Sir,” Steve says, 'cause his heart don't take to too much sweetness all in one go.

“Want you to put a call out to Lacey,” he answers. “I'm feelin' a sweet tooth. Ask him how many candy bars he can get me for forty-eight quarters and seven cents change.”

Steve blinks at him.

“You want me to ask _Ciaran Lacey_ how many candy bars he can get for…forty-eight quarters and seven cents change?” Steve repeats, albeit a little confused like. 

“You got it,” Senior says, and then off he goes.

Steve watches him go, and then he sighs.

“Buchanan?” he says, and Buchanan's voice answers him soon enough.

“Yeah?” 

“How'd I get ahold of Ciaran Lacey – he be at home?”

Buchanan's snort is audible even though the closed door.

“Try the Inn,” he says. “This time of day when he ain't on a job, that's your best bet.”

Steve nods, stands up. Brooklyn Inn ain't too far if he starts off now.

“You want I should pick up lunch comin' back?” Steve asks. 

“Sure,” Buchanan answers. “Only if we're sharin' the break though, got it?” 

Steve rolls his eyes but smiles as he starts hobbling to the door. He'll get 'em both somethin' nice, just this once.

~

The Brooklyn Inn's a small place but it's nice, cosy even, and he gets a couple stares as he passes but those who're watching see he's heading for the back, where Ciaran Lacey sits.

“Afternoon, Sir,” Steve says – Lacey knows his face well enough by now. Steve don't have to flash his little silver lily to get a word in no more. “Been given a question to put to you.”

“Have you now?” Lacey asks, and he ain't as intimidating as Senior but only 'cause he ain't as high up in rank. Temper-wise, the looks of him? Steve's glad his bread's buttered on the same side as Lacey's 'cause he sure as hell wouldn't want to be against him. 

“Yessir, gotta ask you how many candy bars you can get him for forty-eight quarters and seven cents change,” Steve says after a short nod.

Lacey looks at him. Frowns. 

Pauses.

“That much, huh?” he says, as though somehow that's unfair. “Depends which one. Not sure about Baby Ruths, y'understand, but if he likes nuts and marshmallow, I could stretch it... Tell him I'll talk to my friend. Gimme an hour, I’ll get two hundred for a dollar-twenty.”

Steve doesn't know fully what that means, although he's got his inclinations. He knows something's being moved and somebody needs to do the moving, but he don't rightly know what or where, and that's as it should be. The more people know, the more people can talk about it.

“Baby Ruths difficult, nuts and marshmalla two hundred for a buck twenty in an hour,” Steve repeats, and Lacey’s eyebrows go up, corner of his mouth twitches.

“Not bad. Need a drink, kid?” Lacey asks as Steve turns away.

“I'm on duty,” Steve answers, and Lacey smiles. “But thanks anyway.”

He picks up an egg salad sandwich for both of 'em, given it's a Friday, and heads on back.

It takes him longer'n he'd like – he forgot about that undershirt he isn't wearing and it's still cold for February, almost March. His scarf's thick but it ain't enough to keep all the cold out. His face is burning by the time he's back – wind-chill biting at his fair skin always turned him beet red anyhow – and he steps back into the blessed warmth of the office and sighs as he leans against the door.

Buchanan sticks his head out of his office and looks at him.

“Took your time,” he said, and he's kidding but Steve still feels he owes Buchanan an explanation. 

“My feet,” he says. “An' my back, I hadda...” 

He's still outta breath, and Buchanan's smile falls a little, he comes out and relieves Steve of, first, the egg-salad sandwiches, then the scarf and coat he's wearing.

“...sit down,” Steve manages eventually, and Buchanan nods.

He smells like cigarette smoke and stale coffee and Steve's throat is stinging from the cold air outside anyway, but his hands are big and warm on Steve's back and, to Steve's surprise, start rubbing over his shoulder blades.

“I forget cold for me's like ice for you. Next time just tell me it's too cold.”

“It ain't too cold,” Steve says, but Buchanan snorts.

“Like hell it ain't. Lacey say anything back?”

Steve nods right around the time Buchanan stops trying to warm the backs of his shoulders, and Steve tries not to feel the sudden cold again as keenly. 

“He said he ain't sure 'bout Baby Ruths but if your Da likes nuts and marshmalla' he could stretch it. Says he can talk to his guy, get two hundred for a dollar-twenty.”

Buchanan smiles like this is the best news he's ever heard.

“That's one of the things I like about you,” Buchanan tells him. “You're good with detail.”

He says it 'de_tail_,' with the sort of tone that might suggest he's impressed, and he looks at Steve a moment longer before he pulls out a pack of Gauloise from his breast pocket. Steve's lungs get a little tighter just to look at 'em, but they smell nice, is the thing, and Buchanan lights one, offers one to Steve as well.

Steve takes it, 'cause he likes the taste and he don't wanna turn down his boss, and Buchanan lights it for him. Mainly, Steve lets it rest in the ashtray, and Buchanan perches on the edge of the desk while they eat. It's good egg salad – fresh, and it'd still be warm if Steve'd eaten it where he bought it. As it is, it's almost as cold in that sandwich as his fingers are on the brown paper, but it's seasoned real nice and it fills Steve right up, and Buchanan won't take the money for it.

“Consider it my penance,” he says, all high and mighty like. “I made you go out in the cold so I bought you lunch.”

Steve rolls his eyes but he's smiling anyway.

In fact, he makes it all the way through his sandwich and his coffee before Buchanan's second cigarette causes a problem, and Steve ain't fast enough to figure it before it happens. 

One minute he's thinking about opening a window, and the next he's tryin' to cough, 'cept he can't get enough air in.

Buchanan notices – hard not to with Steve's lungs whistlin' like a runaway train – but he ain't a trained doctor. It's a funny thing, Steve manages to think while he's trying to keep calm and sit upright upright and do what he can to tough it out. He's been given cigarettes for this but they're not gonna do him any good if he can't get the smoke into his damned lungs.

“God, Stevie, you havin' an asthma attack?” Buchanan says, and Steve loosens his tie 'cause he's starting to get little stars on the edge of his vision, points at the window 'cause his head feels like it'll burst as he nods. 

Buchanan gets the window but Steve just gets a blast of cold air over his face, which is startin' to sweat with all that effort over breathing. Buchanan, good as he is, chucks his half-smoked Gauloise out into the street, then looks back at him.

“Got anything for it?” he says.

Steve shakes his head and just looks at him, his face heavy on his skull, his eyes feelin' too big in their sockets, whistlin' on the out _and_ the in now. Jesus, what'll they even say to his poor Ma?

“Shit,” Buchanan mutters, but it's startin' to sound fuzzy and Steve's throat is burning. “Hey, kid!” 

Steve tries to lift his head and look at Buchanan but realizes a second later that Buchanan can't be yelling at him.

“You know Gruber two blocks down? I got an emergency and there's a dollar in it for you.”

When he pulls himself back inside the window, Steve's tryin' real hard to keep calm 'cause his heart's as bad as his lungs, but Buchanan hauls the chair over to the window and pushes Steve so he's sittin' up straight. Steve feels like he's trying to lift the whole Empire State building on his shoulders but Buchanan don't let go, palm solid in the middle of Steve's chest, over his hammering heart, over his struggling lungs. 

“I know,” he says, “and I know what I sound like, too, so you can laugh at me all you want later but right now, breathe.”

Steve tries to look at him, his whole body pulling inward and pushing outward, none of it doing him much good. He's already trying to breathe, and he can smell Buchanan's cologne, his cigarettes, his coffee, what the hell does Buchanan mean, breathe?

“I know,” Buchanan tells him, “but you gotta do it slow – you're goin' in and out and you sound like a donkey, kid, so slow it down, a'right? I need you to slow down else you'll pass out and then I'll have to pick you up and all that shit and just...can you breathe slower, kid? Stevie?”

Steve tries, purses his lips and pushes, opens his mouth and breathes in. It ain't easy – never is – but he tries.

He doesn't know either how long they're sittin' by the window together, knows Buchanan's next appointment's gotta be due soon, but it doesn't hurt so much eventually. Takes its time, of course, but, after a while, the whistling ain't so loud, and then it ain't so often. The burning fades a little, though it's still there, and though it feels like somebody's got a vice around his chest, it don't feel like they're squeezing the life out of him no more. 

He just sounds like he's run up a couple flights of stairs by the time Gruber and some kid comes in.

The kid Buchanan dismisses with a squeeze of his shoulder and a dollar in his pocket. Gruber doesn't look impressed at all. He might be in charge of the bodies now, but he's still a doctor. Ain't no doctor's ever been impressed by Steve.

“Asthma?” he says, and Steve nods just as Buchanan answers in the affirmative. “I didn't bring a nebulizer, James,” he says. “I'll have to go back for it. But let me take a look at you, boy.” Steve does, used to the rigmarole by now, and Gruber's busy pressing metal to Steve's chest when he says, “James, fetch a coffee for him, would you?” And then, softer, “Ought to help having the warmth in you a little.”

Buchanan fetches Steve a coffee, which he takes with a nod of thanks 'cause he still don't trust his voice, and then Gruber's off out again to fetch a nebulizer.

~

Gruber sees to Steve the way he sees to anyone he needs to - efficient, smart. He don’t charge Steve then and there but Buchanan waves him off when he asks about the bill anyhow.

The office is surprisingly quiet once Gruber's gone, the tick of the clock reminding them that neither's saying a word.

“You know,” Buchanan says, “I know it was wrong of me to send you out in the cold...”

Steve looks at him.

“But man, you sure know how to rub it in, dont'cha?”

Steve smiles, shakes his head, and then he reaches over and closes the window where the cold air's starting to make him shiver.

~

The rest of the day's uneventful, especially compared to their afternoon, but compared to most of their days anyway. It's a slow day, nobody needs nothin', nobody wants much. Nobody's actually died today so far, so Steve's just sittin' pretty and waitin' for something to happen.

Nothing does.

Gruber gives him a nebulizer, shows him what to do with it. Buchanan pays for it because, he says, he's the one who started all the trouble in the first place, and Steve feels better after that and his coffee. He has an asthma cigarette too, but only half. He doesn't like the taste of them and they turn his stomach – story of his life. Solve one problem, cause another.

Still, asthma cigarettes are better than liver juice. Steve could be sick just remembering it. 

Buchanan offers to drive him home and Steve nods, getting stiffly to his feet.

“Thank you,” he says, 'cause it's a Friday and he sure don't feel like hoofin' it all the way back.

They're almost to Steve's place when Buchanan says,

“Your Ma doing shifts this Sunday?”

Steve frowns, thinks for a moment.

“Uh, no, no” he says, fingers tracing the lettering on the nebulizer's box where it sits in his lap. “She's off – we'll go to church and then I thought I'd make her dinner.”

“That's real sweet of you,” Buchanan says, rounding the corner in the hearse, “but my mother's asked me to invite you to our table Sunday evening. We get a kitchen full, I'm sure my Ma's decided on More the Merrier by now.”

Steve blinks, thinks about this.

“I'll,” he says, “have to ask my Ma.”

“Sure,” Buchanan beams. “Only my Ma wants to meet'cha 'cause of how you drew that pitcher of her for her birthday. She said dinner'd be her treat for it.”

Steve looks up at him.

“Pretty sure you payin' me was my treat for it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Buchanan says, watching the road mostly. “But my five dollars didn't come with bread pudding.”

Steve's stomach tightens. He ain't so good with a lot of food but he's willing to be ill after bread pudding.

He almost says it back, like a starving street urchin - _excuse me, Sir, but did you say Bread Pudding?_

“I'll have to ask my Ma,” he says again.

Buchanan snorts, but he's been working around Steve a couple months now, so before Steve can get offended or even ask what's funny, he's saying,

“I ask you to dinner, you sound like it's a death sentence. I ask you to bread pudding and you nearly jump right into my lap – I'd be offended 'cept we're talking about bread pudding. You know how my Ma makes it? She takes-”

Steve groans, ignoring the lap comment.

“Don't,” he says, pressing one hand to his stomach. “It's two days and my Ma might be too tired – you're killin' me.”

Buchanan laughs.

When he drops Steve home, Steve thanks him, gets outta the car and Buchanan leans across the seats as Steve's about to close the door. 

“Listen, I know I kid around and so do you, but you and her, you're eatin' all right? Ain't neither of you's hungry?”

“We're eatin' just fine, Boss,” Steve says, “warm too,” and Buchanan looks him up and down a minute before he nods.

“A'right,” he says. “I'll see you in the morning. And your Ma Sunday evening! We settle down to eat about five, gets us all sittin' down with time for the babbies to eat afore it's their bed time. Okay?” 

Steve nods.

“I'll do my best,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Eeeh,” Buchanan answers, waving him off as he shakes his head, and Steve smiles to himself as he shuts the door so Buchanan can drive away.

He makes a meal out of what they've got – fish at least ain't too hard to pick up in Brooklyn – and leaves half for his mother. She'll be back late tonight, and Steve goes and finds a pencil and a bit of paper and starts scratching out little bits and pieces of things to keep himself occupied. He sketches Buchanan and then sketches his mother, and he draws and plays solitaire and reads until she comes home.

***

“Your tie's fine,” his mother says, and he can hear the smile in her voice but he looks at her and raises an eyebrow nonetheless.

She chuckles.

She's dressed up real pretty, and he's in his good clothes, but he still feels like she outshines him, still feels like he's not dressed well enough. 

To Steve's relief, it's Rebecca who opens the door, all done up in a lovely dress, and she raises an eyebrow though she’s smiling as she leans on the doorframe, daring him to say something about it.

“Ma’am,” he says instead, and she breaks, laughing.

“Well come in,” she says, and Steve does as he’s asked and walks by, “you and your- Ohh! Oh, you must be Mrs Rogers!”

“I,” his Ma says, and he can hear her smiling, sees the happiness in her eyes when he glances over his shoulder, and she laughs, flattered by the recognition. “I am, hello. You must be Mi-”

“Oh Becca, it’s Becca, don’t go none’a that Miss Barnes Missus Proctor stuff, come on in, we got room for two little’ns!”

Steve laughs softly, and then he looks around ‘cause damn, it’s been a while since he’s seen a place nice as this. He ought’a’ve figured given how nice the office looks, how well turned out the Barnes men always are but, still, this place is a palace next to theirs. Gorgeous carpet, pretty pictures on the wall - oh there’s his, right by…golly, a piano. And everything else he can think of, too, as Becca leads them on. And then-

“Stevie!” and it’s loud, first of all, but he ain’t used to that for a name, that’s a new one. 

Buchanan’s smiling, though, happy as he steps into the living room. He’s a cigarette in one hand and he ain’t wearing a tie though he’s still in mostly Sunday best.

“Glad you both could make it. Mrs Rogers, what a pleasure it is to meet such a lovely lady as yourself,” he shakes her hand and Steve’s kinda glad - for a minute he thought Buchanan might kiss it instead, but something Steve’s learned about him already is he knows when to apply charm and exactly how much. “I’ve heard all about you, Ma’am, Steve’s gotta get his smarts from somewhere.”

“You flatter me,” his Ma answers, and Buchanan’s eyebrows go up.

“Oho, and his manners!” he says. “Ma’am, you’re a peach. Dinner’s through here,” and he sets off so that he can stand by the doorway and usher them through.

Dinner smells _amazing_ and, though Steve never manages to eat a great deal (lucky for him and his Ma really) he thinks he could give it a pretty good shot, ‘cause it turns out Mrs Barnes, Buchanan’s Ma, has put on a full meal that’s…Steve ain’t seen this much of a meal for a long time, sure, and his mouth waters from the smell alone, he figures his eyes must be bugging from the sight of it. 

“There’s this for now and bread pudding for afters,” Mrs Barnes says, and Steve feels his stomach growl about it - thankfully the entire Barnes family makes enough noise to cover that up.

“Mrs Rogers,” Becca says, and his Ma holds up a hand.

“Please,” she says, “if I’m to call you Becca, you’ve to call me Sarah.”

Becca smiles, soft and genuine - far cry from the tight, subtle thing she gives at the office, when she’s gotta be aloof so nobody gets any ideas. She looks at Steve too - knows he knows. (One of the reasons they get on so well’s most people take ‘em for less than they are.)

“Sarah,” she says, like it’s something to be held delicately, something to treasure. “Please, come sit with me and Ma, we’d love to have you.”

His Ma looks at him, for a yes or no probably, but he nods, smiles.

“Ladies together is it?” he says.

“Gotta put the culture somewhere, sweetie,” Becca answers, and Steve laughs just as Buchanan’s hand comes down on his shoulder. 

“That puts you with the rest of the rabble,” he says, “if you’re alright with me and the boys?”

“The what now, Jamie?” Senior pipes up, and Buchanan smiles.

“The boys and my father,” he amends, but Senior’s eyes sparkle like his son’s. 

“That’d be an honor,” Steve says, and Buchanan rolls his eyes, slaps Steve on the back.

“A’right, a’right, don’t gotta lay it on that thick, ya mook-”

“Gee, mister,” Steve says, “don’t rightly know I deserve a place at’cher table with such esteemed-”

“Knock it off, kid,” Buchanan snorts, and Steve laughs to himself about it.

They join hands for grace and Steve’s between Buchanan and Charlie Miller, the father to be. Charlie’s hands are cold - he got here just before Steve - but Buchanan’s is warm and his grip’s tight, and he flashes Steve a grin when he squeezes his fingers.

“For every plateful,” he says, and Mrs Barnes, who’s walking past him at that moment, swipes her dishcloth over his head. 

“Watch yourself,” she says, but there ain’t no heat in it and Steve smiles.

Buchanan’s Ma still treats Buchanan the way his own mother treats him, despite the difference in their ages, and it’s sweet to watch. 

Steve’s hungry, he really is, but he’s got manners. When the family start serving, he passes his plate as it’s asked for, and he don’t say nothin’ about it. He continues to not say a thing about it until Buchanan starts putting enough roast beef and vegetables on his plate to feed an army-

“N-” Steve says, “no, I- Please-”

“Git out’ve it, Stevie, you got skin on them bones and nothin’ else,” and then he smiles at Steve’s Ma, “and you, Ma’am, are lookin’ lovely today and you’ve raised the best secretary I’ve ever had sure, let us treat you, huh?”

Steve blushes scarlet as he takes his plate back with a nod of thanks. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, and Buchanan looks at him, eyebrows raised. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Ma’am, you after any more of any more?”

“Not for me, thank you kindly,” Steve’s Ma says, and she looks almost as surprised as Steve feels embarrassed.

Steve won’t ever be able to repay kindness like Buchanan’s, that’s for sure. He couldn’t afford a meal like this, of course, but that’s not all he means. He couldn’t seat fifteen people at a table, couldn’t share the warmth of his home with such confidence. He and his Ma could come to care deeply about the Barnes family (though Steve will always hold some details back, of course) but the openness of Mrs Barnes’ smile, the easy way Rebecca, Annabel, Amanda and their husbands engage them in conversation, the way Senior talks to Steve’s Ma like she’s one of his own. 

Steve and his Ma’ve been alone a long time, though there’s people enough who’ll talk to them at church or at the grocer’s. They’ve been each others’ family for Steve’s whole life, but he knows it wasn’t always so. He knows that she loved a man, once, that Steve never really knew. Joseph never saw him, though Steve’s seen one murky photograph of his father. He’s drawn him too, asked his mother for advice - he’s only seen the one photo but she tells him his interpretations are fair. He keeps those instead, wonders if you really can miss someone you never knew.

But she knew him. She loved him, they were to start a family together, and now here’s Steve. He’s only one man, and not much of one, he knows that. But he’s finally able to put food on the table with regularity, finally able to tell her she don’t gotta work her fingers to the bone just to keep a roof over their heads. 

He can be the man his father would have wanted, can be the man his mother needs, but only - _only_ \- because Buchanan took a chance on him.

Steve owed Buchanan everything already, before he ever saw his mother smile the way she’s smiling now. 

Dinner’s delicious, and Mrs Barnes’ bread pudding is to _die_ for.

***

Steve insists on helping Mrs Barnes with the dishes, because the women get up to help and they’ve spent the whole afternoon making food that Steve could subsist on for the next month, possibly too.

“No, Ma’am, I insist,” he says, and he’s not sure about the look Senior gives him, but he ignores it in favor of taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

His mother accompanies Becca and Matt into the living room, and she takes Evelyn onto her knee and baby-talks her while James John behaves himself with his Gramps like his Gramps don’t run half of Brooklyn from his mortuary. 

Steve washes the dishes and talks a little to Mrs Barnes about the food, and his Ma. It’s better than talking about himself - he’s sure she knows, sure that’s why she asks. But it’s easy to tell her how good of a person his mother is, easy to tell her how she lights up his days with her presence, how he lives his life to make her proud. It’s easier still because, he discovers, Mrs Barnes is so like her. Mrs Barnes loves her children, loves her husband, worries for the people she cares about and, though she’s no need to work the kind of job Steve’s mother has, she spends her time instead feeding and clothing her family, making friends and acquaintances with the women in her social circle - baking or sewing or attending mass. Mrs Barnes is a formidable woman whose heart is full.

She knows what her husband does, mind - there she differs from Steve’s mother at least. 

“Still though,” she says as they dry the last of the dishes. “What harm’s a little whiskey when it keeps so many nice young men out of trouble?”

She means Steve, he can see that.

“You’re too sweet to me,” he says. “I’m not a nice young man.”

She points at him, one finger, and he freezes.

“Now you listen to me, Stevie boy,” she says, and he’s listening alright, “don’t insult your mother’s hard work.”

It startles a laugh out of him, but he concedes, and thanks her for the compliment instead. 

“Here,” she says, “why don’t you go and ask Jamie if he wants coffee now or later would you?”

Steve nods.

Buchanan’s in the dining room still, with everyone else in various other places, some of them fixing to leave on account of their children, and he’s sitting in his chair with his head back and his legs splayed, his collar open and his jacket on the back of his chair.

He’s pleased as punch, it looks like, grinning smug but still charming - he’s got a knack for that - and he puts his cigarette down in an ash tray to offer the pack to Steve. Steve declines though he’d like one. He does like a smoke, can’t help it - there’s something calming about it, but he’ll skip it for now. He’s not sure his stomach can handle food and a cigarette both.

Buchanan doesn’t seem offended that he’s refused, thank goodness, and Steve’s just clearing his throat to ask him about coffee when Buchanan speaks first.

“How’d you like dinner, Stevie?” he asks, and Steve sits down in the chair next to him given he’s been standing at the sink for half an hour and his back’s protesting.

“Don’t think I’ll need to eat for a week’r two,” he says, leaning back, and Buchanan laughs, takes a drag of his cigarette and blows out the smoke. 

They’re harsh, always are, but Becca’s been at her Camels since dinner and it’s not been so bad, even Senior’s pipe ain’t too much of a problem. Steve has to clear his throat a little but it’s not too difficult.

“Your Ma,” he says, and has to clear his throat again ‘cause it didn’t work the first time, “asked if you’d like coffee now or later.”

Buchanan shakes his head.

“I’m good for now, though I can’t speak for everyone. Didn’t I tell you the bread pudding was worth the trip?”

Steve clears his throat a little but he smiles nonetheless.

“You di-” he has to do it again. “You did, I-” 

The back of his throat’s burning and his chest is a little tight but he-

He coughs this time and-

“Steve?”

Aw, shit, come on-

“Christ, Stevie, you off again?” Buchanan says, and Steve wants to shake his head and say no but there’s not much hiding it like this, not when it’s so obvious. “Damnation,” Buchanan mutters, and Steve’s heard him swear before, sure, but still, “Becca! Becca you still got Mrs R? Stevie’s breathin’ ain’t right,” and great, God, just great, the only thing worse than his body doing this to him now is the knowledge that his Ma’s gonna have to swoop in to his rescue.

It ain’t so bad but dinner was going so well.

His Ma comes in and sits next to him, and rubs his back and his face burns and he feels like a heel. Worse, Buchanan crouches next to him and waves his hands at Becca, or…maybe not Becca? It’s hard to focus-

“Okay, Steve, breathe for me, sweetheart,” his Ma says, and Buchanan doesn’t say anything to Steve but he’s saying something else about it.

Gruber? Oh, God in heaven, don’t call Gruber out.

His Ma’s hands are soothing, the way they always are, but Steve feels like a fool, as much as he feels like anything when his goddamn lungs are doing this. 

“He bring his nebulizer?” Steve hears Buchanan ask, and Steve shakes his head.

“I’ve got it,” his Ma says, and Steve shuts his eyes, Jesus Christ, he’s like a goddamn schoolboy.

“Okay,” Buchanan says, and then Buchanan’s taking over rubbing his back, and his mother’s going into her purse for his nebulizer, and Steve’s about ready to die anyway from embarrassment. 

His boss’ dinnertable, his boss’ house, and here he is, wheezing like a child.

“Alright, _leanbh,”_ his Ma says, and he can hear Becca and the kids and a couple of other voices - he doesn’t know them all well enough to distinguish between them though he recognizes his mother’s tone when she goes from his mother to his nurse. “Now I’d like you to lift your head up for me.”

~

After, when everyone’s milling around the place (except Mandy and Edward, who’ve headed home with the girls), Steve’s sitting in the living room with Matt and Becca, his Ma sittin’ next to him with her eye on him. She knows he’ll be fine, he always is, but she worries, of course she does. 

Matt and Becca are talking to him as though nothing’s been wrong at all, which he appreciates, but they’re mid conversation when Buchanan marches straight in.

“It’s the cigarettes,” Buchanan says, and everybody looks at him. “Ain’t it?”

Steve frowns a little, looks around at everybody. They’re still looking at Buchanan so they can’t see his hesitation but he hesitates alright, he’s got an awful feeling about this.

“Not…always?” he says, and Buchanan lifts a hand to his mouth and rubs it back and forth.

“Listen, you got a problem with my Gauloises, you say so. Ain’t it the cigarettes?”

Steve wets his lips.

“Some cigarettes.”

“Right,” Buchanan nods, “but you’re alright when Rosie lights up, right? An’ Becca?”

Steve nods slowly.

“Yessir,” he says, ‘cause formality’s probably the best way to go for this. “I got my asthma cigarettes too, they’re alright.”

Buchanan plants his hands on his hips, and then he looks at Becca, nods at the ashtray near her wrist.

“You smoke Camels, right?” 

“For my stomach,” Becca says. “Yeah?”

“Right well,” and then Buchanan’s looking at him again. “I can keep the Gauloise at home, smoke Camels in the office-”

“No, hey,” Steve says, “boss, wait, I-”

“Nah, I mean it, Steve,” he says, and that seems to be it - everyone leans back and looks away, goes back to what they were doing before. Barnes Senior’s head of the household but Buchanan’s not far behind. “I’ll smoke Camels at the office, that alright by you?”

Steve blinks at him, unsure.

“I,” he says, and then he notices Becca’s expectant expression, Senior’s quiet calm. The look on his Ma's face. “Thank you, boss,” he says, and Buchanan beams, gives him a nod.

“There now,” he says, and turns. “It’s settled.”

And then he sits himself in one of the armchairs and holds out a hand to Becca. Becca rolls her eyes but hands him a Camel, and Buchanan lights that up instead. It’ll be fine - Steve’s never had as big a problem with Camels. He looks at his mother. 

She’s where he got the ability to raise one eyebrow sharp enough to cut, and she’s just lowering hers when he looks. Then she gives him the sort of smile that says, _'how about that?'_, and Mrs Barnes asks about coffee then, so none of them say any more about it.

Steve’s not sure what to make of it, if he’s perfectly honest, aside from the fact that it’s one more thing to put on the list of things he owes James Buchanan Barnes.


End file.
